hat looked as if it might have been used
for the butting post at the end of the world.

"Scar Face" Hopkins got all his scars in the battle of life. Men who
command locomotives on the firing line often get hurt, but Hopkins had
votes of thanks from officials and testimonials from men, and
life-saver's medals from two governments to show that his scars were the
brands of honorable degrees conferred by the Almighty on the field for
brave and heroic deeds well done.

"Scar Face" Hopkins was a fellow you'd like to get up close to of a
night and talk with, and smoke with, and think with, until unlawful
hours.

One day I went into his office and the clock was there, and his old
torch and a nickle-plated oiler, mementoes of the field. I looked at the
clock, and "Her Eyes" smiled at me, or I thought they did, and said,
just as plain as words, "Glad to see you, dear friend; sit down." But I
turned my back to that clock; I can resist temptation when I know where
it is coming from.

One day, a few weeks later, I stopped before a store window in a crowd
to examine some pictures, satisfied my curiosity, and in stepping back
to go away, put the heel of my number ten on a lady's foot with that
peculiar "craunch" that you know hurts. I turned to make an apology, and
faced the original of the picture on the clock. A beautiful pair of
eyes, the rest of the face was hidden by a peculiar arrangement of veil
that crossed the bridge of the nose and went around the ears and neck.

Those eyes, full of pain at first, changed instantly to frank
forgiveness, and, bowing low, I repeated my plea for pardon for my
clumsy carelessness, but was absolved so absolutely and completely, and
dismissed so naturally, that I felt relieved.

I sauntered up to Hopkins' office. "Hopkins," said I, "I just met your
wife."

"You did?"

"Yes, and I stepped on her foot and hurt her badly, I know." Then I told
him about it.

"What did she say?" asked Hopkins, and I noticed a queer look. I thought
it might be jealousy.

"Why, well, why I don't know as I remember, but it was very kindly and
ladylike."

There was a queer expression on Hopkins' face.

"Of course--"

"Sure she spoke?" asked Hopkins. "How did you know it was my wife
anyway?"

"Because it was the same face that is pictured on your clock, and some
one in the crowd said it was Mrs. Hopkins. You know Hop., I ran by that
clock for a few weeks, and I noticed the eyes."

"Anything queer about